Air Bridge

CHAPTER FIVE

I wont attempt to defend my decision. Saeton had asked me to steal a plane and I agreed to do it. I must take full responsibility, therefore, for all that happened afterwards as a result of that decision.

We went down to Ramsbury and in the smoky warmth of the pub that faces the old oak, he went over the plan in detail. I know it sounds incredible — to steal a plane off such a highly organised operation as the Berlin Airlift and then, after replacing two of the engines, to fly it back to Germany and operate it from the same airfield from which it had been stolen. But he had it all worked out. And when he had gone over all the details, it didn’t seem incredible any more.

The devil of it was the man’s enthusiasm was infectious. I can see him now, talking softly in the hubbub of the bar, his eyes glittering with excitement, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his voice vibrant as he reached out into my mind to give me the sense of adventure that he felt himself. The essence of his personality was that he could make others believe what he believed. In any project, he gave himself to it so completely that it was impossible not to follow him. He was a born leader. From being an unwilling participant, I became a willing one. Out of apparent failure he conjured the hope of success, and he gave me something positive to work for. I think it was the daring of the plan that attracted me more than anything else. And, of course, I was up to the hilt in the thing financially. I may have thought it was money better thrown away considering how I’d got it, but no one likes to be broke when he is shown a way to make a fortune. The only thing he didn’t allow for was the human factor.

As we left the pub he said, ‘You’ll be seeing Tubby tomorrow. Don’t tell him anything about this. You understand? He’s not to know. His family were Methodists.’ He grinned at me as though that explained everything that constituted Tubby Carter’s make-up.

Early the following morning Saeton drove me to Hungerford Station. Riding behind him on the old motor bike through the white of the frozen Kennet valley I felt a wild sense of exhilaration. For over five weeks I hadn’t been more than a few miles from Membury aerodrome. Now I was going back into the world. Twenty-four Hours ago I should have been scared at the prospect, afraid that I might be picked up by the police. Now I didn’t think about it. I was bound for Germany, riding a mood of adventure that left no room in my mind for the routine activities of the law.

Tubby met me at Northolt. ‘Glad to see you, Neil,’ he said, beaming all over his face, his hand gripping my arm. ‘Bit of luck Morgan going sick. Not that I wish the poor chap any harm, but it just happened right for you. Harcourt leaves for Wunstorf with one of the Tudors this evening. You’re flying a test with him this afternoon in our plane.’

I glanced at him quickly. ‘Our plane?’

He nodded, grinning. ‘That’s right. You’re skipper. I’m engineer. A youngster called Harry Westrop is radio operator and the navigator is a fellow named Field. Come on up to the canteen and meet them. They’re all here.’

I could have wished that Tubby wasn’t to be a member of the crew. I immediately wanted to tell him the whole thing. Maybe it would have been better if I had. But I remembered what Saeton had said, and seeing Tubby’s honest, friendly features, I knew Saeton was right. It was out of the question. Duty, not adventure, was his business in life. But it was going to make it that bit more difficult when I ordered the crew to bale out.

I began to feel nervous then. It was a long time since I’d flown operationally, a long time since I’d skippered an air crew. We went into the bar, and Tubby introduced me to the rest of the crew. Westrop was tall and rather shy with fair, crinkly hair. He was little more than a kid. Field was much older, a small, sour-looking man with sharp eyes and a sharper nose. “What are you having, skipper?’ Field asked. The word ‘skipper’ brought back memories of almost-forgotten nights of bombing. I ordered a Scotch.

‘Field is just out of the R.A.F.,’ Tubby said. ‘He’s been flying the airlift since the early days at Wunstorf.’

‘Why did you pack up your commission?’ I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I got bored. Besides, there’s more money in civil flying.’ He looked at me narrowly out of his small, unsmiling eyes. ‘I hear you were in 101 Squadron. Do you remember-’ That started the reminiscences. And then suddenly he said: ‘You got a gong for that escape of yours, didn’t you?’

I nodded.

He looked at the ceiling and pursed his thin lips. I could see the man’s mind thinking back. ‘I remember now. Longest tunnel escape of the war and then three weeks on the run before-’ He hesitated and then snapped his fingers. ‘Of course. You were the bloke that flew a Jerry plane out, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was feeling suddenly tight inside. Any moment he’d ask me what I’d been doing since then.

‘By Jove! That’s wizard!’ Westrop’s voice was boyish and eager. ‘What happened? How did you get the plane?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ I said awkwardly.

‘Oh, but dash it. I mean-’

‘I tell you, I don’t want to talk about it.’ Damn it! Suppose his parachute didn’t open? I didn’t want any hero-worship. I must keep apart from the crew until after the first night flight.

‘I only thought-’

‘Shut up!’ My voice sounded harsh and violent.

‘Here’s your drink,’ Tubby said quietly, pushing the glass towards me. Then he turned to Westrop. ‘Better go and check over your radar equipment, Harry.’

‘But I’ve just checked it.’

‘Then check it again,’ Tubby said in the same quiet voice. Westrop hesitated, glancing from Tubby to me. Then he turned away with a crestfallen look. ‘He’s only a kid,’ Tubby said and picked up his drink. ‘Well, here’s to the airlift!’ Here’s to the airlift! I wondered whether he remembered the four of us drinking that toast in the mess room at Membury. It all seemed a long time ago. I turned to Field. ‘What planes were you navigating on the lift?’ I asked him.

‘Yorks,’ he replied. ‘Wunstorf to Gatow with food for the bloody Jerry.’ He knocked back his drink. ‘Queer, isn’t it? Just over three years ago I was navigating bombers to Berlin loaded with five hundred pounders. Now, for the last four months I’ve been delivering flour to them — flour that’s paid for by Britain and America. Do you think they’d have done that for us?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, here’s to the Ruskies, God rot ‘em! But for them we could have been a lot tougher.’

‘You don’t like the Germans?’ I asked, glad of the change in conversation.

He gave me a thin-lipped smile. ‘You should know about them. You’ve been inside one of their camps. They give me the creeps. They’re a grim, humourless lot of bastards. As for Democracy, they think it’s the biggest joke since Hitler wiped out Lidice. Ever read Milton’s Paradise Lost? Well, that’s Germany. Don’t let’s talk about it. Do you know Wunstorf?’

‘I bombed it once in the early days,’ I said.

‘It’s changed a bit since then. So has Gatow. We’ve enlarged them a bit. I think you’ll be quite impressed. And the run in to Gatow is like nothing you’ve ever done before. You just go in like a bus service, and you keep rolling after touchdown because you know damn well there’s either another kite coming down or taking off right on your tail. But they’ll give you a full briefing at Wunstorf. It’s reduced to a system so that it’s almost automatic. Trouble is it’s bloody boring — two flights a day, eight hours of duty, whatever the weather. I tried for B.O.A.C., but they didn’t want any navigators. So here I am, back on the airlift, blast it!’ His gaze swung to the entrance. ‘Ah, here’s the governor,’ he said.

Harcourt was one of those men born for organisation, not leadership. He was very short with a small, neat moustache and sandy hair. He had tight, rather orderly features and a clipped manner of speech that finished sentences abruptly like an adding machine. His method of approach was impersonal — a few short questions, punctuated by sharp little nods, and then silence while shrewd grey eyes stared at me unblinkingly. Lunch was an awkward affair carried chiefly by Tubby, Harcourt had an aura of quiet efficiency about him, but it wasn’t friendly efficiency. He was the sort of man who knows precisely what he wants and uses his fellow creatures much as a carpenter uses his tools. It made it a lot easier from my point of view.

Nevertheless, I found the test flight something of an ordeal. It was the machine that was supposed to be on test. He’d only just taken delivery. But I knew as we walked out to the plane that it was really I who was being tested. He sat in the second pilot’s seat and I was conscious all through the take-off of his cold gaze fixed on my face and not on the instrument panel.

Once in the air, however, my confidence returned. She handled very easily and the fact that she was so like the one we’d flown only a few days before made it easier. Apparently I satisfied him, for as we walked across the airfield to the B.E.A. offices, he said, ‘Get all the details cleared up, Eraser, and leave tomorrow lunchtime. That’ll give you a daylight flight. I’ll see you in Wunstorf.’

We left Northolt the following day in cold, brittle sunshine that turned to cloud as we crossed the North Sea. Field was right about Wunstorf. It had changed a lot since I’d been briefed for that raid nearly eight years ago. I came out of the cloud at about a thousand feet and there it was straight ahead of me through the windshield, an, enormous flat field with a broad runway like an autobahn running across it and a huge tarmac apron littered with Yorks. There were excavations marking new work in progress and a railway line had been pushed out right to the edge of the field. Beyond it stretched the Westphalian plain, grim and desolate, with a line of fir-clad hills marching back along the horizon.

I came in to land through a thick downpour. The runway was a cold, shining ribbon of grey, half-obscured by a haze of driven rain. I went in steeply, pulled back the stick and touched down like silk. I was glad about that landing. Somehow it seemed an omen.

I kicked the rudder and swung on to the perimeter track, the rain beating up from the concrete and sweeping across the field so that the litter of planes became no more than a vague shadow in the murk.

‘Dear old Wunstorf!’ Field’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘What a dump! It was raining when I left. Probably been raining ever since.’

A truck came out to meet us. We dumped our kit in it and it drove us to the airport buildings. They were a drab olive green; bleak utilitarian blocks of concrete. The Operations Room was on the ground floor. I reported to the squadron leader in charge. ‘If you care to go up to the mess they’ll fix you up.’ Then he saw Field. ‘Good God! You back already, Bob?’

‘A fortnight’s leave, that’s all I got out of getting demobilised,’ Field answered.

‘And a rise in pay I’ll bet.’ The squadron leader turned to me. ‘He’ll get things sorted out for you. Report here in the morning and we’ll let you know what your timings are.’

The station commander came in as he finished speaking, a big blond Alsatian at his heels. ‘Any news of that Skymaster yet?’ he asked.

‘Not yet, sir,’ replied the squadron leader. ‘Celle have just been on again. They’re getting worried. It’s twenty minutes overdue. There’s been a hell of a storm over the Russian Zone.’

‘What about the other bases?’

‘Lubeck, Fuhlsbuttel, Fassberg — they’ve all made negative reports, sir. It looks as though it’s force-landed somewhere. Berlin are in touch with the Russians, but so far Safety Centre hasn’t reported anything.’

‘Next wave goes out at seventeen hundred, doesn’t it? If the plane hasn’t been located by then have all pilots briefed to keep a lookout for it, will you?’ He turned to go and then stopped as he saw us. ‘Back in civvies, eh, Field? I must say it doesn’t make you look any smarter.’ He smiled and then his eyes met mine. ‘You must be Fraser.’ He held out his hand to me. ‘Glad to have you with us. Harcourt’s up at the mess now. He’s expecting you.’ He turned to the squadron leader. ‘Give the mess a ring and tell Wing-Commander Harcourt that his other Tudor has arrived.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘We’ll have a drink sometime, Fraser.’ The station commander nodded and hurried out with his dog.

‘I’ll get you a car,’ the squadron leader said. He went out and his shout of ‘Fahrer!’ echoed in the stone corridor.

The mess was a huge building; block on block of grey concrete, large enough to house a division. When I gave my name to the German at the desk he ran his finger down a long list. ‘Block C, sir — rooms 231 and 235. Just place your baggage there, please. I will arrange for it. And come this way, gentlemen. Wing-Commander Harcourt is wishing to speak with you.’ So Harcourt retained his Air Force title out here! We followed the clerk into the lounge. It had a dreary waiting-room atmosphere. Harcourt came straight over. ‘Good trip?’ he asked.

‘Pretty fair,’ I said.

‘What’s visibility now?’

‘Ceiling’s about a thousand,’ I told him. ‘We ran into it over the Dutch coast.’

He nodded. ‘Well, now we’ve got six planes here.’ There was a touch of pride in the way he said it and this was reflected in the momentary gleam in his pale eyes. He’d every reason to be proud. There was only one other company doing this sort of work. How he’d managed to finance it, I don’t know. He’d only started on the airlift three months ago. He’d had one plane then. Now he had six. It was something of an achievement and I remember thinking: This man is doing what Saeton is so desperately wanting to do. I tried to compare their personalities. But there was no point of similarity between the two men. Harcourt was quiet, efficient, withdrawn inside himself. Saeton was ruthless, genial — an extrovert and a gambler.

‘Fraser!’

Harcourt’s voice jerked me out of my thought. ‘Yes?’

‘I asked you whether you’re okay to start on the wave scheduled for 10.00 hours tomorrow?’

I nodded.

‘Good. We’ve only two relief crews at the moment so you’ll be worked pretty hard. But I expect you can stand it for a day or two.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘“Overtime rates are provided for in your contracts.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time I was moving. There’s a wave due to leave at seventeen hundred. Field knows his way around.’

He left us then and we went in search of our rooms.

It was a queer place, the Wunstorf Mess. You couldn’t really call it a mess — aircrews’ quarters would be a more apt description. It reminded me of an enormous jail. Long concrete corridors echoed to ribald laughter and the splash of water from communal washrooms. The rooms were like cells, small dormitories with two or three beds. One room we went into by mistake was in darkness with the blackout blinds drawn. The occupants were asleep and they cursed us as we switched on the light. Through the open doors of other rooms we saw men playing cards, reading, talking, going to bed, getting up. All the life of Wunstorf was here in these electrically-lit, echoing corridors. In the washrooms men in uniform were washing next to men in pyjamas quietly shaving as though it were early morning. These billets brought home to me more than anything the fact that the airlift was a military operation, a round-the-clock service running on into infinity.

We found our rooms. There were two beds in each. Carter and I took one room; Westrop and Field the other. Field wandered in and gave us a drink from a flask. ‘It’s going to be pretty tough operating six planes with only two relief crews,’ he said. ‘It means damn nearly twelve hours’ duty a day.’

‘Suits me,’ I replied.

Carter straightened up from the case he was unpacking. ‘Glad to be back in the flying business, eh?’ He smiled.

I nodded.

‘It won’t last long,’ Field said.

‘What won’t?’ I asked.

‘Your enthusiasm. This isn’t like it was in wartime.’ He dived across the corridor to his room and returned with a folder. ‘Take a look at this.’ He held a sheet out to me. It was divided into squares — each square a month and each month black with little ticks. ‘Every one of these ticks represents a trip to Berlin and back, around two hours’ flying. It goes on and on, the same routine. Wet or fine, thick mist or blowing half a gale, they send you up regular as clockwork. No let-up at all. Gets you down in the end.’ He shrugged his shoulders and tucked the folder under his arm. ‘Oh, well, got to earn a living, I suppose. But it’s a bloody grind, believe you me.’

After tea I walked down to the airfield. I wanted to be alone. The rain had stopped, but the wind still lashed at the pine trees. The loading apron was almost empty, a huge, desolate stretch of tarmac shining wet and black in the grey light. Only planes undergoing repairs and maintenance were left, their wings quivering soundlessly under the stress of the weather. It was as though all the rest had been spirited away. The runways were deserted. The place looked almost as empty as Membury.

I turned back through the pines and struck away to the left, to the railway sidings that had been built out to the very edge of the landing field. A long line of fuel wagons was being shunted in, fuel that we should carry to Berlin. The place was bleak and desolate. The country beyond rolled away into the distance, an endless vista of agriculture, without hedges or trees. Something of the character of the people seemed inherent in that landscape — inevitable, ruthless and without surprise. I turned, and across the railway sidings I caught a glimpse of the wings of a four-engined freighter — symbol of the British occupation of Germany. It seemed suddenly insignificant against the immensity of that rolling plain.

We were briefed by the officer in charge of Operations at nine o’clock the following morning. By ten we were out on the perimeter track waiting in a long queue of planes, waiting our turn with engines switched off to save petrol. Harcourt had been very insistent about that. ‘It’s all right for the R.A.F.,’ he had said. ‘The taxpayer foots their petrol bill. We’re under charter at so much per flight. Fly on two engines whenever possible. Cut your engines out when waiting for take-off.’ It made me realise how much Saeton had to gain by the extra thrust of those two engines and their lower fuel consumption.

The thought of Saeton reminded me of the thing I’d promised to do. I wished it could have been this first flight. I wanted to get it over. But it had to be a night flight. I glanced at Tubby. He was sitting in the second pilot’s seat, the earphones of his flying helmet making his face seem broader, his eyes fixed on the instrument panel. If only I could have had a different engineer. It wasn’t going to be easy to convince him.

The last plane ahead of us swung into position, engines revving. As it roared off up the runway the voice of Control crackled in my earphones. ‘Okay, Two-five-two. You’re dear to line up now. Take off right away.’ Perhaps it was as well to fly in daylight first, I thought, as I taxied to the runway end and swung the machine into position.

We took off dead on time at 10.18. For almost three-quarters of an hour we flew north-east making for the entry to the northern approach corridor for Berlin. ‘Corridor beacon coming up now,” Field told me over the inter-com. ‘Turn on to 100 degrees. Time 11.01. We’re minus thirty seconds.’ That meant we were thirty seconds behind schedule. The whole thing was worked on split-second timing. Landing margin was only ninety seconds either side of touch-down timing. If you didn’t make it inside the margin you just had to overshoot and return to base. The schedule was fixed by timings over radar beacons at the start and finish of the air corridor that spanned the Russian Zone. Fixed heights ensured that there were no accidents in the air. We were flying Angels three-five — height 3,500 feet. Twenty miles from Frohnau beacon Westrop reported to Gatow Airway.

As we approached Berlin I began to have a sense of excitement. I hadn’t been over Berlin since 1945. I’d been on night raids then. I wondered what it would look like in daylight. Tubby seemed to feel it, too. He kept op looking down through his side window and moving restlessly in hi? seat. I pushed my helmet back and shouted to him. ‘Have you seen Berlin from the air since the war?’

He nodded abstractedly. ‘I was on transport work.’

‘Then what are you so excited about?’ I asked.

He hesitated. Then he smiled — it was an eager, boyish smile. ‘Diana’s at Gatow. She’s working in the

Malcolm Club there. She doesn’t know I’m on the airlift.’ He grinned. ‘I’m going to surprise her.’

Westrop’s voice sounded in my earphones, reporting to Gatow Airway that we were over Frohnau beacon. We switched to contact with Traffic Control, Gatow. ‘Okay, Two-five-two. Report again at Lancaster House.’ So Diana was at Gatow. It suddenly made the place seem friendly, almost ordinary. It would be nice to see Diana again. And then I was looking out of my side window at a bomb-pocked countryside that merged into miles of roofless, shattered buildings. There were great flat gaps in the city, but mostly the streets were still visible, bordered by the empty shells of buildings. From the air it seemed as though hardly a house had a roof. We were passing over the area that the Russians had fought through. Nothing seemed to have been done about it. It might have happened yesterday instead of four years ago.

Over the centre of the city Field gave me my new course and Westrop reported to Gatow Tower, who answered, ‘Okay, Two-five-two. Report at two miles. You’re Number Three in the pattern.’ There was less damage here. I caught a glimpse of the Olympic stadium and then the pine trees of the Grunewald district were coming up to meet me as I descended steeply. Havel Lake opened out, the flat sheet of water across which the last survivors from the Fuhrer Bunker had tried to escape, and Westrop reported again. ‘Clear to land, Two-five-two,’ came the voice of Gatow Control. ‘Keep rolling after touchdown. There’s a York close behind you.’

I lowered undercarriage and landing flaps. We skimmed the trees and then we were over a cleared strip of woods dotted with the posts of the night landing beacons with the whole circle of Gatow Airport opening up and the pierced steel runway rising to meet us. I levelled out at the edge of the field. The wheels bumped once, then we were on the ground, the machine jolting over the runway sections. I kept rolling to the runway end, braked and swung left to the offloading platform.

Gatow was a disappointment after Wunstorf. It seemed much smaller and much less active. There were only five aircraft on the apron. Yet this field handled more traffic than either Tempelhof in the American Sector or Tegel in the French. As I taxied across the apron I saw the York behind me land and two Army lorries manned by a German labour team, still in their field grey, nosed out to meet it. I went on, past the line of Nissen huts that bordered the apron, towards the hangars. Two Tudor tankers were already at Piccadilly Circus, the circular standing for fuel off-loading. I swung into position by a vacant pipe. By the time we had switched off and got out of our seats the fuselage door was open and a British soldier was connecting a pipeline to our fuel tanks.

‘Where’s the Malcolm Club?’ Tubby asked Field. His voice trembled slightly.

‘It’s one of those Nissen huts over there,’ Field answered, pointing to the off-loading apron. He turned to me. ‘Know what the Army call this?’ He waved his hands towards the circular standing. ‘Remember they called the cross-Channel pipeline PLUTO? Well, this one’s called PLUME — Pipeline-under-mother-earth. Not bad, eh? It runs the fuel down to Havel where it’s shipped into Berlin by barge. Saves fuel on transport.’

We were crossing the edge of the apron now, walking along the line of Nissen huts. The first two were full of Germans. ‘Jerry labour organisation,’ Field explained.

‘What about the tower?’ I asked. Above the third Nissen hut was a high scaffolding with a lookout. It was like a workman’s hut on stilts.

‘That’s the control tower for the off-loading platform. All this is run by the Army — it’s what they call a FASO. Forward Airfield Supply Organisation. Here’s the Malcolm Club.’ A blue board with R.A.F. roundel faced us. ‘Better hurry if you want some coffee.’

Tubby hesitated. ‘She may not be on duty,’ he murmured.

‘We’ll soon see,’ I said and took his arm.

Inside the hut the air was warm and smelt of fresh-made cakes. A fire glowed red in an Army-type stove. The place was full of smoke and the sound of voices. There were about four aircrews there, in a huddle by the counter. I saw Diana immediately. She was in the middle of the group, her hand on the arm of an American Control officer, laughing happily, her face turned up to his.

I felt Tubby check and was reminded suddenly of that night at Membury when he and I had stood outside the window of our mess. Then Diana turned and saw us. Her eyes lit up and she rushed over, seizing hold of Tubby, hugging him. Then she turned to me and kissed me, too. ‘Harry! Harry!’ She was calling excitedly across the room. ‘Here’s Tubby just flown in.’ She swung back to her husband. ‘Darling — remember I told you my brother Harry was in Berlin. Well, here he is.’

I saw the stiffness leave Tubby’s face. He was suddenly grinning happily, shaking the big American’s hand up and down, saying, ‘My God! Harry. I should have recognised you from your photograph. Instead, I thought you were some boyfriend of Diana’s.’ He didn’t even bother to hide his relief, and Diana never seemed to notice that anything had been wrong. She was taken too much by surprise. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were flying in?’ she cried. ‘You devil, you. Come on. Let’s get you some coffee. They only give you a few minutes here.’

I stood and watched her hustling him to the bun counter, wondering whether he had told her what had happened at Membury, wondering what she’d say if she knew I was going to ditch him in the Russian Zone.

‘You must be Fraser.’ Her brother was at my elbow. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Di. My name’s Harry Culyer, by the way.’ He had Diana’s eyes, but that was all they had in common. He had none of her restlessness. He’ was the sort of man you trust on sight; big, slow-spoken, friendly. ‘Yes, I’ve heard a lot about you and a crazy devil called Saeton. Is that really his name?’ He gave a fat chuckle. ‘Seems apt from what Di told me.’

I wondered how much she had told him. ‘Are you connected with the airlift?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m attached to the Control Office of the U.S. Military Government. I used to work for the Opel outfit before the war so they figured I’d have to stay on in some sort of uniform and keep an eye on vehicle production in the Zone. Right now I guess you could do with some coffee, eh?’

The coffee was thick and sweet. With it was a potted meat sandwich and a highly-coloured cake full of synthetic cream. ‘Cigarettes?’ I said, offering him a packet.

‘Well, thanks. That’s one of the troubles here in Berlin. Cigarettes are damned hard to come by. And it’s worse for your boys. They’re down to about fifteen a day. Well, what do you think of Gatow?’ He laughed when I told him I was disappointed. ‘You expected to find it littered with aircraft, eh? Well, that’s organisation. Tempelhof is the same. They’ve got it so that these German labour teams turn the planes round in about fifteen minutes.’

“What brings you out to Gatow?’ I asked him. ‘Just paying Diana a visit?’

‘Sort of. But I got a good excuse,’ he added with a grin. ‘I had to interview a German girl who has just got a job out here as a checker in your German Labour Organisation. Some trouble about her papers and we urgently need her down at Frankfurt. That’s why I came up to Berlin.’

‘You’re not stationed here then?’ I asked.

‘No. I’m normally in the Zone. It’s nice and quiet down there — by comparison. I just been talking to your SIB major over there. The stories that man can tell!’

‘What’s he doing up at Gatow?’ I asked.

‘Oh, there’s been some trouble with the Russians. This is your first trip, isn’t it? Well, you see those trees on the other side of the airfield?’ He nodded through the windows. ‘That’s the frontier over there.’

The Russian Sector?’

‘No. The Russian Zone. Last night Red Army guards opened up on a German car just after it had been allowed through the frontier barrier into the British Sector. Then their troops crossed the frontier and pushed the car back into their Zone under the nose of the R.A.F. Regiment. Your boys are pretty sore about it.’

‘You mean the car was shot up in British territory?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘Seems that sort of thing is happening every day in this crazy town. If they want somebody, they just drive into the Western Sectors and kidnap them.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled. ‘From what I hear our boys do the same in the Eastern Sector.’

An R.A.F. orderly called to me from the door. ‘Two-five-two ready, sir.’

‘Well, I guess that’s your call. Glad to have met you, Fraser.’

‘Neil!’ Diana caught hold of my arm. ‘Tubby has just told me — about the crash.’ She glanced quickly at Tubby who was saying goodbye to her brother. ‘What’s Bill doing now?’ she asked in a quick whisper. I didn’t know what to say so I kept my mouth shut. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’ve got over that. But I know how it must have hit him. Where is he now?’

‘He’s still at Membury,’ I said. And then added, ‘He’s sticking the plane together with sealing wax.’

‘You don’t mean to say he’s still going on with it?’

‘Look — I’ve got to go now,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Diana.’

She was staring at me with a puzzled frown. ‘Goodbye,’ she said automatically.

Outside it was still raining. We climbed into the plane and taxied out to the runway. ‘You’re clear to line up now, Two-five-two. Two-six-O a-concrete — angels three-five.’ We flew out along the single exit corridor and were back in Wunstorf in good time for lunch. A letter was waiting for me at the mess. The address was typed and the envelope was postmarked ‘Baydon’. Dear Neil. Just to let you know I have almost completed the break-up. I have a flare path now. All you have to do is buzz once and I’ll light you m. Good luck. Bill Saeton. As I folded the letter Tubby came into the room. ‘Message from Harcourt. We’re not on the 1530 wave. He’s switched us to 2200. Says the other boys need a night’s sleep.’

So it had come. I had a sudden sick feeling.

He peered at me anxiously. ‘You feeling all right, Neil?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘You look pretty pale. Not nervous, are you? Damn it, you’ve no reason to be. You had enough experience of night-flying during the war.’ His gaze fell to the letter in my hand but he didn’t say anything and I tore it into small pieces and stuffed them into my pocket.

‘Better turn in then if we’re going to fly all night,’ I said.

But I knew I shouldn’t sleep. Hell! Why did I have to agree to this damn-fool scheme? I was scared now. Not scared of the danger. I don’t think it was that. But what had seemed straightforward and simple over a drink in the pub at Ramsbury seemed much more difficult now that I was actually a part of the airlift. It seemed utterly crazy to try and fly a plane out of this organised bus service of supply delivery. And I had to convince a crew that included Tubby Carter that they had got to bale out over the Russian Zone. The menace of the Zone had already gripped me. I lay and sweated on my bed, listening to the 1530 wave taking off, knowing that mine was the next wave, scared that I should bungle it.

At tea I could eat nothing, but drank several cups, smoking cigarette after cigarette, conscious all the time of Tubby watching me with a puzzled, worried expression. Afterwards I walked down to the field in the gathering dusk and watched the planes pile in, a constant stream of aircraft glimmering like giant moths along the line of the landing lights. I saw my own plane, Two-five-two, come in, watched it swing into position on the loading apron and the crew pile out, and I hung on, waiting for the maintenance crew to finish servicing it. At last it stood deserted, a black shape against the wet tarmac that glistened with the reflection of the lights. I climbed on board.

Saeton and I had discussed this problem of simulating engine failure at great length. The easiest method would have been simply to cut off the juice. But the fuel cocks were on the starboard side, controlled from the flight engineer’s seat. We had finally agreed that the only convincing method was to tamper with the ignition. I went forward to the cockpit and got to work on the wiring behind the instrument panel. I had tools with me and six lengths of insulated wire terminating in small metal clips. What I did was to fix two wires to the back of three of the ignition switches. These wires I led along the back of the instrument panel and brought out at the extreme left on my own side. All I had to do when I wished to simulate engine failure was to clip each pair of wires together and so short out the ignition switches. That would close the ignition circuit and stop the plugs sparking.

It took me the better part of an hour to fix the wires. I was just finishing when a lorry drove up. There was the clatter of metal and the drag of a pipe as they connected the fuel lorry to the tanks in the port-hand wing. The lorry’s engine droned as it began refuelling.

I waited, conscious already of a fugitive, guilty feeling. Footsteps moved round the plane. Rather than be caught crouched nervously in the cockpit of my own machine, I went aft down the fuselage, climbing round the three big elliptical tanks and dropping on to the asphalt. I started to walk away from the plane, but the beam of a torch picked me out and a voice said, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Squadron-Leader Fraser,’ I answered, reverting automatically to my service title. ‘I’ve just been checking over something.’

‘Very good, sir. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ I answered and went hurriedly across to the terminal building and along the road to the mess. I went up to my room and lay on my bed, trying to read. But I couldn’t concentrate. My hands were trembling. Time dragged by as I lay there chainsmoking. Shortly after seven-thirty the door opened and Westrop poked his head into the room. ‘You coming down to dinner, sir?’

‘May as well,’ I said.

As we went down the echoing corridors and along the cinder paths to the mess, Westrop chattered away incessantly. I wasn’t listening until something he said caught my attention. ‘What’s that about a crash?’ I asked.

‘Remember when we arrived here yesterday — the station commander was talking about a Skymaster that was missing?’ he said. ‘Well, they made a forced landing in Russian territory. I got it from a flight lieutenant who’s just come off duty at Ops. One of our crews sighted the wreck this afternoon. The Russians have Apparently denied all knowledge of it. What do you think happens to crews who get landed in the Russian Zone?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said shortly.

The flight lieutenant said they were probably being held for interrogation. He didn’t seem worried about them. But they might be injured. Do you think the Russians would give them medical treatment, sir? I mean’ — he hesitated — ‘well, I wouldn’t like to have a Russian surgeon operate on me, would you?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think they hope to gain by this sort of thing? Everybody seems convinced they’re not prepared to go to war yet. They’ve stopped buzzing our planes. That seems to prove it. They got scared when they crashed that York. I was talking to an R.E. major this afternoon. He said the trouble was their lines of communication. Their roads are bad and their railways from Russia to Eastern Germany are only single track. But I think it’s more than that, don’t you, sir? I mean, they can’t possibly be as good as us technically. They could never have organised a thing as complicated as the airlift, for instance. And then their planes — they’re still operating machines based on the B 29s they got hold of during the war.’ He went on and on about the Russians until at length I couldn’t stand it any more. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘I’m sick and tired of the Russians.’

‘Sorry, sir, but-’ He paused uncertainly. ‘It’s just — well, this is my first operational night flight.’

It was only then that I realised he’d been talking because he was nervous. I thought: My God! The poor kid’s scared stiff of the Russians and in a few hours’ time I’m going to order him to jump. It made me feel sick inside. Why wasn’t my crew composed entirely of Fields? I didn’t care about Field. I’d have ordered him to jump over wartime Berlin and not cared a damn. But Tubby and this child….

I forced myself to eat and listened to Westrop’s chatter all through the meal. He had a live, inquiring mind. He already knew that we had to cover seventy miles of the Russian Zone in flying down the Berlin approach corridor. He knew, too, all about Russian interrogation methods — the round-the-clock interrogation under lights, the solitary confinement, the building up of fear in the mind of the victim. ‘They’re no better than the Nazis, are they?’ he said. ‘Only they don’t seem to go as far as physical torture — not against service personnel.’ He paused and then said, ‘I wish we wore uniform. I’m certain, if anything like that happened, we’d be better off if we were in R.A.F. uniform.’

‘You’ll be all right,’ I answered without thinking.

‘Oh, I know we shan’t have to make a forced landing,’ he said quickly, mistaking what had been in my mind. ‘Our servicing is much better than the Yanks’ and-’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ I cut in. ‘Have a cigarette and for God’s sake stop talking about forced landings.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It was only-’ He took the cigarette. ‘You must think me an awful funk. But it’s odd — I always like to know exactly what I’m facing. It makes it easier, somehow.’

Damn the kid! I’d always felt just like that myself. ‘I’ll see you at the plane at 21.46,’ I said and got quickly to my feet. As I went out of the dining-hall I glanced at my watch. Still an hour to go! I left the mess and walked down to the airfield. The night was cold and frosty, the sky studded with stars. The apron was full of the huddled shapes of aircraft, looking clumsy and unbeautiful on the ground. Trucks were coming and going as the FASO teams worked to load them for the next wave. I leaned on the boundary fence and watched them. I could see my own plane. It was the left-hand one of a line of Tudors. Fuel loading and maintenance crews had completed their work. The planes stood deserted and silent. The minutes dragged slowly by as I stood, chilled to the marrow, trying to brace myself for what I had to do.

The odd thing is I never thought of refusing to cany out my part of the plan. I could have raised technical difficulties and put it off until gradually Saeton lost heart. Many times since I have asked myself why I didn’t do this, and I still don’t really know the answer. I like to think that Saeton’s threat of exposing my identity to the police had nothing to do with it. Certainly the audacity of the thing had appealed to me. Also I believed in Saeton and his engines and the airlift had only served to increase their importance in my eyes. Moreover, my own future was involved. I suppose the truth is that my attitude was a combination of all these things. At any rate, as I stood there on the edge of Wunstorf airfield waiting for zero hour, it never occurred to me not to do it.

At last my watch told me it was nine-fifteen. I went slowly back to the mess. Tubby came in as I was getting into my flying kit. ‘Well, thank God the weather’s cleared,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I wouldn’t want to be talked down by GCA the first time we went in by night.’ GCA is Ground Control Approach, a means of blind landing where the plane lands on instructions from an officer operating radar gear at the edge of the runway.

By nine-fifty we were climbing into the plane. Our take-off time was 22.36 and as I lifted the heavy plane into the starlit night my hands and stomach felt as cold as ice. Tubby was checking the trim of the engines, his hand on the throttle levers. I groped down and found one of my three pairs of wires and touched the ends of them together. The inboard port motor checked. It worked all right. I glanced quickly at Tubby. He had taken his hand from the throttles and was listening, his head on one side. Then he turned to me. ‘Did you hear that engine falter?’ he shouted.

I nodded. ‘Sounded like dirt in the fuel,’ I called back.

He stayed in the same position for a moment, listening. Then his hand went back to the throttles. I glanced at the airspeed indicator and then at my watch. Three-quarters of an hour to Restorf beacon at the entrance of the air corridor.

The time dragged. The only sound was the steady drone of the engines. Twice I half-cut the same motor out. On the second occasion I did it when Tubby had gone aft to speak to Field. I held the wires together until the motor had cut out completely. Tubby suddenly appeared at my elbow as I allowed it to pick up again. ‘I don’t like the sound of that engine,’ he shouted.

‘Nor do I,’ I said.

He stood quite still, listening. ‘Sounded like ignition. I’ll get it checked at Gatow.’

I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-sixteen. Any minute now. Then Field’s voice crackled in my ears. ‘We’re over the corridor beacon now. Right on to 100 degrees. We’re minus ten seconds.’ I felt ice cold, but calm, as I banked. My stomach didn’t flutter any more. I leaned a little forward, feeling for the metal clips. One by one I fastened them together in their pairs. And one by one the engines died, all except the inboard starboard motor. The plane was suddenly very quiet. I heard Tubby’s muttered curse quite distinctly. ‘Check ignition!’ I shouted to him. ‘Check fuel!’ I made my voice sound scared. The airspeed indicator was dropping, the luminous pointer swinging back through 150, falling back towards the 100 mark. The altimeter needle was dropping, too, as the nose tilted earthwards. ‘We’re going down at about 800 a minute,’ I shouted.

‘Ignition okay,’ he reported, his hand on the switches. ‘Fuel okay.’ His eyes were frantically scanning the instrument panel. ‘It’s an electrical fault — ignition, I think. The bastards must have overlooked some loose wiring.’

‘Anything we can do?’ I asked. ‘We’re down to three thousand already.’

‘Doubt it. Not much time.’

‘If you think there’s anything we can do, say so. Otherwise I’m going to order the crew to bale out.’ I had kept my inter-com mouthpiece close to my lips so that Field and Westrop could hear what we were saying.

Tubby straightened up. ‘Okay. We’d better bale out.’ His face looked stiff and strained in the light of the instrument panel.

‘Get your parachutes on,’ I ordered over the intercom. ‘Field. You go aft and get the fuselage door open. We may have to ditch her.’ Out of the tail of my eye I saw the two of them struggling with their parachutes. Field shouted something to Westrop and a moment later the bags containing the other two parachutes were slid on to the floor of the cockpit. ‘Get back to the fuselage door,’ I told Westrop. ‘I’ll send Carter aft when I want you to jump.’ I glanced at the altimeter dial. ‘Height two-six,’ I called to Tubby.

He straightened up. ‘Nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘It’s in the wiring somewhere.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Get aft and tell the others to jump. Give me a shout when you’re jumping.’

He stood there, hesitating for a moment. ‘Okay.’ His hand gripped my arm. ‘See you in the Russian Zone.’ But he still didn’t move and his hand remained gripping my arm. ‘Would you like me to take her while you jump?’ he asked.

I realised suddenly that he was remembering the last time I’d jumped, over Membury. He thought my nerve might have gone. I swallowed quickly. Why did he have to be so bloody decent about it? ‘Of course not,’ I said sharply. ‘Get aft and look after yourself and the others.’

His eyes remained fixed on mine — brown, intelligent eyes that seemed to read my mind. ‘Good luck!’ He turned and dived quickly through towards the fuselage. Leaning out of my seat, I looked back and watched him climbing round the fuel tanks. I could just see the others at the open door of the fuselage. Tubby joined them. Westrop went first, then Field. Tubby shouted to me. ‘Jump!’ I called to him. The plane skidded slightly and I turned back to the controls, steadying her.

When I looked back down the length of the fuselage there was no one there. I was alone in the plane. I settled myself in my seat. Height one thousand six hundred. Airspeed ninety-five. I’d take her down to a thousand feet. That should put her below the horizon of the three who had jumped. Through the windshield I saw a small point of light moving across the sky — the tail-light of one of the airlift planes holding steadily to its course: I wondered if those behind could see me. In case, I banked away and at the same time broke one of the wire contacts. The outboard port engine started immediately as I unfeathered the prop.

As I banked out of the traffic stream a voice called to me — ‘You bloody fool, Neil. You haven’t even got your parachute on.’ I felt sudden panic grip me as I turned to find Tubby coming back into the cockpit.

‘Why the hell haven’t you jumped?’

‘Plenty of time now,’ he said calmly. ‘Perhaps the other engines will pick up. I was worried about you, that’s why I came back.’

‘I can look after myself,’ I snapped. ‘Get back to that door and jump.’

I think he saw the panic in my eyes and misunderstood it. His gaze dropped to my parachute still in its canvas bag. ‘I’ll take over whilst you get into your parachute. With two engines we might still make Gatow.’

He was already sliding into the second pilot’s seat now and I felt his hands take over on the controls. ‘Now get your ‘chute on, Neil,’ he said quietly.

We sat there, staring at each other. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I glanced at the altimeter. The needle was steady at the thousand mark. His eyes followed the direction of my gaze and then he looked at me again and his forehead was wrinkled in a puzzled frown. ‘You weren’t going to jump, were you?’ he said slowly.

I sat there, staring at him. And then I knew he’d got to come back to Membury with me. ‘No,’ I said. And with sudden violence, ‘Why the hell couldn’t you have jumped when I told you?’

‘I knew you didn’t like jumping,’ he said. ‘What were you going to do — try and crash land?’

I hesitated. I’d have one more shot at getting him to jump. I edged my left hand down the side of my seat until I found the wires that connected to the ignition switch of that outboard port motor. I clipped them together and the motor died. ‘It’s gone again,’ I shouted to him. I switched over to the automatic pilot. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re getting out.’ I slid out of my seat and gripped him by the arm. ‘Quick!’ I said, half-pulling him towards the exit door.

I think I’d have done it that time, but he glanced back, and then suddenly he wrenched himself free of my grip. I saw him reach over the pilot’s seat, saw him tearing at the wires, and as he unfeathered the props the motors picked up in a thrumming roar. He slid into his own seat, took over from the automatic pilot and as I stood there, dazed with the shock of discovery, I saw the altimeter needle begin to climb through the luminous figures of its dial.

Then I was clambering into my seat, struggling to get control of the plane from him. He shouted something to me. I don’t remember what it was. I kicked at the rudder bar and swung the heavy plane into a wide banking turn. ‘We’re going back to Membury,’ I yelled at him.

‘Membury!’ He stared at me. ‘So that’s it! It was you who fixed those wires. You made those boys jump-’ The words seemed to choke him. ‘You must be crazy. What’s the idea?’

I heard myself, laughing wildly. I was excited and my nerves were tense. ‘Better ask Saeton,’ I said, still laughing.

‘Saeton!’ He caught hold of my arm. ‘You crazy fools! You can’t get away with this.’

‘Of course we can,’ I cried. ‘We have. Nobody will ever know.’ I was so elated I didn’t notice him settling more firmly into his seat. I was thinking I’d succeeded. I’d done the impossible — I’d taken an aircraft off the Berlin airlift. I wanted to sing, shout, do something to express the thrill it gave me.

Then the controls moved under my hands. He was dragging the plane round, heading it for Berlin. For a moment I fought the controls, struggling to get the ship round. The compass wavered uncertainly. But he held on grimly. He had great strength. At length I let go and watched the compass swing back on to the lubber lines of our original course.

All the elation I had felt died out of me. ‘For God’s sake, Tubby,’ I said. ‘Try to understand what this means. Nobody’s going to lose over this. Harcourt will get the insurance. As for the airlift, in a few weeks the plane will be back on the job. Only then it will have our engines in it. We’ll have succeeded. Doesn’t success mean anything to you?’ Automatically I was using Saeton’s arguments over again.

But all he said was, ‘You’ve dropped those boys into Russian territory.’

‘Well, what of it?’ I demanded hotly. ‘They’ll be ail right. So will Harcourt. And so will we.’

He looked at me then, his face a white mask, the little lines at the corners of his eyes no longer crinkled by laughter. He looked solid, unemotional — like a block of granite. ‘I should have known the sort of person you were when you turned up at Membury like that. Saeton’s a fanatic. I can forgive him. But you’re just a dirty little crook who has-’

He shouldn’t have” said that. It made me mad — part fear, part anger. Damn his bloody high and mighty principles! Was he prepared to die for them? I reached down for the wires. My fingers were trembling and numb with the cold blast of the air that came in through the open doorway aft, but I managed to fasten the clips. The engines died away. The cabin was suddenly silent, a ghostly place of soft-lit dials and our reflections in the windshield. We seemed suddenly cut off from the rest of the world. A white pin-point of light slid over us like a star — our one contact with reality, a plane bound for Berlin.

‘Don’t be a fool, Fraser!’ Tubby’s voice was unnaturally loud in the stillness.

I laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. My nerves were keyed to the pitch of desperation. ‘Either we fly to Membury,’ I said, ‘or we crash.’ My teeth were clenched. It might have been a stranger’s voice. ‘You can jump if you want to,’ I added, nodding towards the rear of the cockpit where the wind whistled.

‘Unfasten those wires!’ he shouted. And when I made no move he said, ‘Get them unfastened and start the motors or I’ll hurt you.’

He was fumbling in the pocket beside his seat and his hand came out holding a heavy spanner. He let go the controls then. The plane dipped and slid away to port. Automatically I grasped the control column and righted her. At the same time he rose in his seat, the spanner lifted in his hand.

I flung myself sideways, lunging out at him. The spanner caught me across the shoulder and my left arm went numb. But I had hold of his flying suit now and was pulling him towards me. He had no room to use the spanner again. And at the same moment the plane dropped sickeningly. We were flung into the aisle and fetched up against the fuel tanks in the fuselage.

For a moment we stood there, locked together, and then he fought to get clear of me, to get back to start the motors again. I was determined he shouldn’t. I’d take him down into the ground rather than fly on to Gatow to be accused of having attempted to take a plane off the airlift. I clutched hold of him, pinning his arms, bracing myself against the tanks. The plane lurched and we were flung between the tanks into the main body of the fuselage where the wind roared in through the open doorway. That lurch flung us against the door to the toilet, breaking us clear of each other. He raised the spanner to strike at me again and I hit him with my fist. The spanner descended, striking my shoulder again. I lashed out again. My fist caught his jaw and his head jerked back against the metal of the fuselage. At the same moment the plane seemed to fall away. We were both flung sideways. Tubby hit the side of the open doorway. I saw his head jerk back as his forehead caught a protruding section of the metal frame. Blood gleamed red in a long gash and his jaw fell slack. Slowly his legs gave under him.

As he fell I started forward. He was falling into the black rectangle of the doorway. I clutched at him, but the plane swung, jerking me back against the toilet door. And in that instant Tubby slid to the floor, his legs slowly disappearing into the black void of the slipstream. For an instant his thick torso lay along the floor, held there by the wind and the tilt of the plane. I could do nothing. I was pinned by the tilt of the plane, forced to stand there and watch as his body began to slide outwards, slowly, like a sack, the outstretched hands making no attempt to hold him. For a second he was there, sliding slowly out across the floor, and then the slip-stream whisked him away and I was alone in the body of the plane with only the gaping doorway and a thin trickle of blood on the steel flooring to show what had happened.

I shook myself, dazed with the horror of it. Then I closed the door and went for’ard. Almost automatically my brain registered the altimeter dial. Height 700. I slipped into the pilot’s seat and with trembling fingers forced the wires apart. The engines roared. I gripped the control column and my feet found the rudder bar. I banked and climbed steeply. The lights of a town showed below me and the snaking course of a river. I felt sick at the thought of what had happened to Tubby. Height two-four. Course eight-five degrees. I must find out what had happened to Tubby.

I made a right, diving turn and levelled out at five hundred feet. I had to find out what had happened to him. If he’d regained consciousness and had been able to pull his parachute release… Surely the cold air would have revived him. God! Don’t let him die, I was sobbing my prayer aloud. I went back along the course of the river, over the lights of the town. A road ran out of it, straight like a piece of tape and white in the moonlight. Then I shut down the engines and put down the flaps. This was the spot where Tubby had fallen. I searched desperately through the windshield. But all I saw was a deserted airfield bordered by pine woods and a huddle of buildings that were no more than empty shells. No sign of a parachute, no comforting mushroom patch of white.

I went back and forth over the area a dozen times.

The aerodrome and the woods and the bomb-shattered buildings stood out clear in the moonlight, but never a sign of the white silk of a parachute.

Tubby was dead and I had killed him.

Dazed and frightened I banked away from the white graveyard scene of the shattered buildings. I took the plane up to 10,000 feet and fled westward across the moon-filled night. Away to the right I could see the lines of planes coming in along the corridor, red and green navigation lights stretching back towards Lubeck. But in a moment they were gone and I was alone, riding the sky, with only the reflection of my face in the windshield for company — nothing of earth but the flat expanse of the Westphalian plain, white like a salt-pan below me.